Tales from the Cesspool
by Chatastic
Summary: Musings and memories from Dr. John Watson, Sherlock Holmes' most able biographer and associate.
1. Beginnings

_Drabble: A work of 100 words, no more, no less. In this case, written from the perspective of John Watson, M.D. , Late of the Army Medical Department. A debt of gratitude is owed to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for gifting us all with such sublime characters and tales. I borrow them respectfully._

_ooOOOoo_

"Beginnings"

Hell is being useless.

What does whole feel like? I am in pieces here, held together only by a thin cotton sheet. Someone stands over me, speaking of my condition, but I am not addressed. In the middle of fevered dreams, I believed that I was back on the sand, under fire, unable to help those falling so fast at my feet.

How many wounded lay before me as I joined them?

Nothing more for me here: I am of no use in this state, all angles of bone and sweat-soaked skin.

Thus, my career ends; wherever shall I go?


	2. Middles

"Middles"

I certainly wouldn't have been able to swear to either of them.

The one man was a mere shadow, his bloodless lips and red-rimmed lids rendering him more wraith than rascal on the playground.

The other held a moss rose between his fingers and waxed philosophic.

I sat still in between the two, the tension palpable. My past lay to the right, my present to the left: A sheet of foolscap paper bearing Miss Annie Harrison's penmanship brought the two together.

Holmes studied the flower quietly. Phelps' ragged breathing washed over me, insistent that I _do something_. How utterly unthinkable.


	3. Endings

_A/N: Special thanks to Cookies for inspiration and beta services. Thank you to everyone for reading; thanks especially for leaving feedback. I appreciate it very much._

_ooOOOoo__  
_

"Endings"

Holmes stands by the window, tracing his finger down the cold glass, leaving twin trails of condensation on either side of the tip. His spine is rigid, his left arm at a painful angle with the hand shoved into the pocket, but his hooded eyes skim Baker Street with unfocused malaise. 

I sit at my desk, notebook open. I dip my pen, and Holmes moves to lie on the divan. I scratch out a few words, some choice phrases from our interview with Lestrade, when he says, "The least satisfying moments, really."

I smile. "For you. My work only begins."


	4. Hours

_Author's Note: From "The Adventure of the Final Problem"_

_ooOOOoo__  
_

"Hours"

We stepped off the train and hid.

Cautiously, I watched as our luggage disappeared from my sight as Holmes gently pulled me back.

"An hour until the train to Newhaven."

I closed my eyes and stilled my panting breath.

"You've planned this out. To the very second."

Holmes nodded. "A military man such as yourself would appreciate attention to detail."

Details: The smell of tobacco, the ridge of gummy adhesive on his nose from his disguise, the way he fought to keep his hand from shaking. The scent of smoke as the small car passed, carrying Death to his appointment.


	5. Days

_Author's Note: Regards "The Adventure of the Final Problem"_

_ooOOOoo_

"Days"_  
_

"It's not the Old Imperial, eh?"

A short bark of a laugh. "No, my dear friend. Not exactly. It's _la Monnaie_, or should I say _de Munt_? Or shall we be German tourists?"

We spent two days in Brussels: Holmes in disguise and both of us with our carpetbags. Hidden away, plainly in sight; I wanted to strategize, but Holmes wanted to enjoy our time there. To see the opera, too, but we could only see the façade.

"The sunsets in Afghanistan burned hot and fast," said I, sipping ale at dusk.

"Your gaze perceives the precise, redemptive brilliance."  



	6. Weeks

_Author's Note: Regards "The Adventure of the Final Problem"_

_ooOOOoo_

"Weeks"

He had asked me for a week. Just a week on the Continent.

When he bid me to take up a pencil, I did.

When he bid me wake and follow, I did.

When he came to my home that night and bade me light his cigarette, I did so, but I hesitated. His battered knuckles entreated me to question, to evaluate, to judge for myself the "free use" to which he'd put himself.

Mary was away for a fortnight, and this pleased him. I was alone, but never truly so, for he would always materialize when I least expected.


	7. Months

_Author's Note: Regards "The Adventure of the Final Problem"_

_ooOOOoo_

"Months"

"I want you to go back to London."

Holmes paced, the telegram in his hand, his fears of the loss of three months' work only slightly abated.

"I shall do no such thing." My calm voice floated above the smoke of his cigarette.

"There is no time to argue. Moriarty has fixed his sights upon me, and it is now time to act."

"You have planned our offensive move, I trust."

"Go home, Watson."

"I am where I belong. And rather familiar with being the target." I rested my hand on his shoulder. "I must agree, though. It is time." 


	8. Years

_Author's Note: Regards "The Adventure of the Final Problem"_

_ooOOOoo_

"Years"

The paper has yellowed slightly. Perhaps I did not immediately preserve it properly. I could hardly comprehend the text at the time, much less think towards the future, when these small pieces of note-paper would become my tether across the years.

I have not always been alone: Mary was with me for two years after our time in Meiringen.

Now I pull my hat down a little lower when the wind blows coldest.

Three years and I have not pushed my injured body to frantically keep up with his racing mind.

If only I would have followed him that day. 


	9. Sea

_Author's Note: A bit of speculation inspired by reading_"John Watson - The Good Doctor?" A Talk by Craig Hilton for the Sherlock Holmes Society of Western Australia on the 25th May, 1996

_ooOOOoo_

"Sea"

The saltwater hits my face and I smile for the first time in so long.

I don't smile because it tastes good. It stings, and I feel something, and I react.

My father says that I shall grow tall and brown in Australia, but I want to be an explorer. I think my mother used to read to me; those stories made me wish for great adventures like Robinson Crusoe. I will find myself a Friday and explore.

Mum tried to be gruff, to make Friday frightening.

But I wanted to know all about him. I hoped to meet him. 


	10. Shore

_Author's Note: Thank you so much for reading. I'm humbled by some of the comments, and I do plan to write a full-length tale presently. These were a series of exercises which I do plan on continuing. If you are looking for more Holmesy goodness, do come by www(dot)holmesian(dot)net/forums for tons of fun. _

_ooOOOoo_

"Shore"

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," said I as she entered, bearing a tea service.

"Would he enjoy something sweet? Would he eat then?"

"Indeed, he often remarks on the quality of your desserts," I gently lied.

The good lady was too distracted to express horror over the room. I rustled the papers a little louder than normal as I tidied. "Watson," wafted the voice from the divan where he sprawled, his face turned away. "The file for the Byrne case, if you please?"

"Might the maid be involved?" My questions, though often simple, could act like flint for his steel mind.  



	11. Faith

_Author's note: Regards "The Adventure of the Devil's Foot." _ _Er... Happy New Year and the compliments of the season. I haven't forgotten Watson, and I do intend to take up a longer work. Tonight/this morning, however, I just wanted to slip back into his voice via the drabble._

_oooOOOooo_

"Faith"

I stand on the rocky peak, looking down at the mix of foam and stone as they curdle into a maleficent brew. Brave is the man who takes up the sail and the starboard, for there are few occupations where the violent will of Demeter supersedes all humanistic care.

Holmes sits inside. I assure myself of his comfort based on the slim data at hand: his legs relaxed as I propped his heels under a pillow, the lines of his face softened when I placed the cup of tea in his hands, and he did not promise to remain still.


	12. Trust

"Trust" 

My hand does not shake when I take up a scalpel in surgery.

My breath does not shallow when I palpate a patient and confirm grim reality.

Here I am reduced in awareness— the cold metal in my manic grasp and the bile in my throat. I have forgotten what to recommend for anemia. I cannot recall the principles of complete asepsis introduced by Lister.

My Beaumont-Adams weighs 1.1kg unloaded, and fires twelve rounds a minute.

"Still more majestic shalt thou rise,/ More dreadful from each foreign stroke," is my fruitless prayer to an island goddess half a world away.

* * *

_My sincere appreciation to readers and reviewers. Watson quotes from __"Rule, Britannia."_


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